Hurricane Thunderclap
by FoundAgain
Summary: 'The first time you saw him he knew you with a simple blink of the eyes... he comes and goes and you stay. You know that every day has the potential to be your last, but lately it bothers you that you may never see him again.' Lengthy Drabble. Charah.


Disclaimer: Chuck belongs to NBC. No money is being made here. Title of this story belongs to The Antlers, not me.

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Hurricane Thunderclap

Maybe it's something in his eyes, the way they shine when he walks in the room. The way they speak volumes, so much so that you're afraid you've lost your hearing. Maybe it's that funny way he blinked the first time he saw you, maybe it's the flash of fear he has whenever you step a little closer.

Maybe it's because you can tell that he knows you.

You messed up, messed up so badly that the company wanted to wait to kill you. To draw out the punishment. Until you're stuck in this little hole somewhere. This little black space imprisoned by your own guilt. One day they'll let you and your guilt walk away from the dull, white walls and the cold stale air. They'll let you walk into a shiny dark alley, they'll let you roast in hell.

Until then, you get to see him everyday. He brings you breakfast and dinner with a sad smile. He tries to talk to you, but he only asks questions. And you don't know the answers. He asks if you remember this and remember that, but you think he's insane. He spins tales of missions you've never been on, and he swears that when you're released, he'll show you the world.

One day, when he leaves, you realize that you've been crying. You realize that you'd begun to believe his stories and his dreams and that you're in love with him.

You love him.

You realize that you're crying because no matter how hard he tries, there is no chance of saving you. You love him because of those eyes, because he knows you so so well, even though you're pretty sure he doesn't have the right clearance. You love him because you feel like in another life, he loves you.

One day, a different man brings breakfast. He's wearing the same clothes and the same mask, but his eyes are different. His build is different. You can't see the lines around his eyes crease in a sad smile, or his cheeks rise and fall as he talks to you. He doesn't touch you, and you realize that the other man had. You miss the feeling of human warmth.

He brings you dinner, but he doesn't stay for very long. You go back to staring at that white wall in front of you, infinitely more interesting than the white ceiling.

He comes less and less, the other man comes more and more. Your food begins to taste... less. Less taste. Whenever he does come, you see more crinkly sad smile lines than bright sparkly eyes. You think that they're going to release you soon. That whatever they were keeping you for is done. You wake up one day, or night, you can't really tell the difference anymore, with tears in your eyes. The alarms in the building are singing softly outside your room. But no one comes for you. He doesn't come.

He doesn't come anymore, ever since that one night with the alarm bells singing. You still wake up with the remnants of tears on your face. You often wonder what you look like. Your hair hasn't been washed in months. You haven't washed in months. Sometimes you think he stopped coming because of the smell.

One day your boss visits, and he isn't happy. He yells at you, and you do your best to behave. You listen to his shouting, you listen to his accusations, you listen to his questions. You don't say a word.

He wants to know about Chuck and Casey and the Intersect and an explosion. He wants to know about loose ends and casualties. You tell him that you would like to know too. He gives a sad shake of his head when you ask him what happened to Director Graham. He leaves you alone with the white walls. You're beginning to like them, they never leave.

After what you think might have been weeks pass, the monotony is broken by the dull tones of the alarm, ringing slightly out of tune. You assume that the sound is louder in the hallways, it upsets you that you're so isolated you can't hear the emergency report.

But he comes back, he runs into your room, and shouts something about not that much time. He grabs your hand and promises that it will all be ok. You look at him and ask him when anythings ever been "ok".

He looks deep into your eyes, his warm brown eyes validating every promise he's ever made, including this one:

"Everything is ok when I'm with you."

And, oh God, you wish you knew him. You want to know him. You need him, and even though you don't want to assume anything, you think that look in his eye means he needs you too.

He drags you to your feet, and you stumble. It's been so long since walking was necessary. The alarms are still flat outside the room.

"Does it hurt?"

He's looking at you with concern and fear and love. Or just concern. You don't know what he's talking about, but his palm is resting on your head, and you realize that it's bandaged. Which explains why you may not have washed your hair in forever. Does it hurt? You don't know, you haven't felt anything in a long time. These white calls don't evoke much of anything.

Does it hurt? The first time you saw him he knew you with a simple blink of the eyes. You knew nothing, but you so badly wanted to. He comes and goes and you stay. You know that every day has the potential to be your last, but lately it bothers you that you may never see him again. Does it hurt? You don't know about whatever might be physically wrong with this brain of yours, but these thoughts hurt.

So you nod that it does, and he steadies you as you walk out of the room together. It's funny, you kind of always thought he would be the one to lead you away from this place. You were right about the alarms being much louder outside the room.

After you're safely buckled into his passenger seat, something triggers... something. Of course, it doesn't come back all at once. It's never that easy. But you have this feeling that your memory isn't all its cracked up to be. You have this feeling that he's more than just a guard, more than just a savior. You have this feeling that you're... destined to be with him.

His eyes are concentrated on the road, and you notice that your hand is reaching out to touch his face. To see if he's real. Your featherlight touch causes him to turn his head, and he smiles at you. And you know you must be right because, maybe, he knows you - that real you that nobody, not even yourself, knows.

And, maybe, that's all you need.


End file.
